


Three Times Dean Doesn't Escape From Hell, And One Time He Does (But Wishes He Hadn't)

by ras_elased



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-13
Updated: 2008-09-13
Packaged: 2017-10-11 13:35:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/112963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ras_elased/pseuds/ras_elased
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>The first idea came to me when we were worried my brother might be at risk for developing schizophrenia, and after he told me some of the things he was seeing and feeling I started panicking and cooking up worst-case scenarios and thinking about how much that would be like his personal hell. Needless to say, I was too terrified to put this down in writing until we were sure he was in the clear, and I'm still not sure I gave that part my all, since I'm still struggling with the thought of my brother's potential mental illness. I think maybe the rest of the ideas were just me trying to convince myself that there are worse things that could happen, and yes, that's my very warped way of dealing with bad news. Also, I wrote this pretty fast (about two days) because I really want to get the angst out so I can be ready for the premier this week!!!! \o/</p>
    </blockquote>





	Three Times Dean Doesn't Escape From Hell, And One Time He Does (But Wishes He Hadn't)

**Author's Note:**

> The first idea came to me when we were worried my brother might be at risk for developing schizophrenia, and after he told me some of the things he was seeing and feeling I started panicking and cooking up worst-case scenarios and thinking about how much that would be like his personal hell. Needless to say, I was too terrified to put this down in writing until we were sure he was in the clear, and I'm still not sure I gave that part my all, since I'm still struggling with the thought of my brother's potential mental illness. I think maybe the rest of the ideas were just me trying to convince myself that there are worse things that could happen, and yes, that's my very warped way of dealing with bad news. Also, I wrote this pretty fast (about two days) because I really want to get the angst out so I can be ready for the premier this week!!!! \o/

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Current mood:**

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anxious  
  
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**Entry tags:**

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[fandom: spn](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/fandom%3A%20spn), [fic: 3 times dean doesn't escape from he](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/fic%3A%203%20times%20dean%20doesn%27t%20escape%20from%20he), [genre: 5 things](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/genre%3A%205%20things), [genre: angst](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/genre%3A%20angst), [genre: drama](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/genre%3A%20drama), [rating: r](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/rating%3A%20r)  
  
  
  
Title: Three Times Dean Doesn't Escape From Hell, And One Time He Does (But Wishes He Hadn't)  
Author: Ras Elased  
Rating: R  
Spoilers: 3.16  
Warnings: angst, some mild gender-swap, complete lack of any happy endings, and gen (yes, I consider gen to be a warning)  
Author's notes: The first idea came to me when we were worried my brother might be at risk for developing schizophrenia, and after he told me some of the things he was seeing and feeling I started panicking and cooking up worst-case scenarios and thinking about how much that would be like his personal hell. Needless to say, I was too terrified to put this down in writing until we were sure he was in the clear, and I'm still not sure I gave that part my all, since I'm still struggling with the thought of my brother's potential mental illness. I think maybe the rest of the ideas were just me trying to convince myself that there are worse things that could happen, and yes, that's my very warped way of dealing with bad news. Also, I wrote this pretty fast (about two days) because I really want to get the angst out so I can be ready for the premier this week!!!! \o/

  
1.

It's white. So white it hurts his eyes. He's lying on something soft, but firm. Too white, and soft, and cold. This can't be Hell, but he doesn't want to open his eyes, just in case he's wrong. Why can't he move? His toes are cold, and he realizes he's barefoot.

Suddenly there's a hand on his arm and Dean instinctively lurches away, at least as far as he can with his arms tied to his chest and another soft wall at his back. His eyes fly open to face his attacker, and he sees two faces. One is kindly, with grey hair and spectacles, and the other that flickers underneath it is black and grotesque. The faces speak. "Dean, it's alright. It's just me."

Dean stares wildly at the two faces, then rips his gaze away long enough to take in his surroundings, look for a possible escape. Dean sees now that he's in a room, the walls padded and white, bright fluorescent lights flickering overhead. There's another flickering two-face standing by the locked door, broad-shouldered and fat, a clipboard in his hands. He's wearing orderly scrubs. Dean looks down at himself, at the dingy pajama pants and white sleeves of a straight jacket binding his arms. He scrambles further back into the corner, dirty bare feet struggling for purchase on the soft floor. "Who the hell are you?" he asks, voice raw.

One of the two faces frowns in confusion. "I'm Dr. Meyers, Dean. You don't recognize me?" He studies Dean's face with concern. "Tell me Dean, do you know where you are?"

Dean eyes the two-face by the door, calculating his chances of making it past Fatty with no weapons and his arms tied down. It's not looking good. "I'm in Hell," he spits, incredulous. "Where the fuck are you?"

Meyers sighs, but his other face sneers. "You're in St. Christopher's Psychiatric Hospital. I've been treating you for the past three years. You were showing significant progress until your latest…episode," he says, like it's a sensitive subject and he isn't sure he should have mentioned it.

"Treating me?" Dean feels his brows scrunch. This isn't making sense, it's all wrong. "Treating me for _what?_"

Meyers looks away briefly, as if finding his words. When he looks back, he says quietly, "Your house burned down when you were four years old. Everyone inside…Your parents, your baby brother Sam…"

Dean feels his heart kick against his ribs in panic and confusion. "Shut up! Sam's fine, he's alive, you don't know what you're talking about!"

Meyers continues in that same gentle voice. "Four years ago, you started seeing things. Ghosts, demons…your family. Then you started getting paranoid delusions. You were convinced they were coming for you, for your brother, and you decided that you needed to hunt them down. We tried to treat your schizophrenia, but you weren't responding to treatment, and…"

"I _did_ hunt them down. I killed a lot of evil sons of bitches, just like I'll kill _you_!"

"No, Dean!" Meyers' voice rises for the first time. "Those things you killed were people! You killed innocent people, and you're damn lucky the judge remanded you to my custody instead of giving you the death penalty!"

Dean's mouth snaps shut. He stares at Meyers. He blinks, but the black face continues to flicker and sneer. "No," Dean says, and then louder, "No! You're a demon, and this is all some sick kind of mind-fuck you cooked up to mess with my head. But I know I'm not crazy, and Sam's _fine_, he'll keep hunting, keep fighting, and he'll _find me_ and make you sons of bitches pay, and—"

Dean is ranting now, but he can't stop. Meyers gives him a pitying look and then motions towards Fatty. The next thing Dean knows, he is being held down as a needle the size of his fist is shoved into his arm, and everything goes hazy and grey.

It goes on like that for a while. It could be days or years. Time ceases to have any meaning for Dean when he spends most of it in a puddle of his own piss and drool, too drugged to do anything but shake in the cold. The flickering double faces come to sneer at him, feed him, wash him and change his clothes. Dean keeps trying to make them go away, to wipe the flickering away and figure out if any of what he is seeing is real. When Dean finally tries to rip off Meyers' face to prove there is another one underneath, all he gets for his trouble are a lot of bruises from Fatty and some time strapped to a hospital bed, wrists rubbed raw where he's struggled with his restraints.

When Sam first shows up, Dean almost doesn't notice. He's too busy staring at the corner like a boy in time out, rocking back and forth with the pent up frustration of a caged animal. There is a whisper of clothes rustling at his back, and then a small voice says, "Dean?"

Dean pauses, but doesn't turn. He slams his eyes shut and starts rocking again in earnest. "You're not real, you're not real, you're not real," he chants under his breath.

"Dean, it's me. It's Sam." A hand on Dean's shoulder, and he skitters sideways until he is across the room, breathing frantically with his face pressed up against the musty smelling walls and staring at hazel eyes he knows so well because he'd cooked them up in his own imagination.

"You're not real!" he shouts, accusing, and the imagined eyes grow confused. "You're another trick! You and the two-faces!"

"Dean, it's me. It's your brother. I came to get you out of here."

"No," Dean says, beginning to rock again. "No, my brother's dead. No, no, no no no no, my brother's _dead_." The last part comes out as a whimper as tears start spilling from Dean's wide eyes, the pain of the statement overwhelming him.

"My god, what did they do to you?" Sam's imagined eyes grow sad, shaded. He takes a step forward but pauses when Dean flinches away. "You need to come with me, Dean. I can get you out, but I can't do it without your help." Dean just turns away, pressing his wet cheeks against the rough fabric of the wall. When Dean turns back, Sam is still there, looking at Dean the same way he had when Dean died—but no, he hadn't died, he'd imagined that too, hadn't he? "Dean, please. You have to come with me. _Please._" Sam's voice gets quieter with each word, even as he comes closer. "Dean…" Sam says, voice shaking, pleading, begging, tears rolling down his nonexistent face. He kneels by Dean's side and wraps nonexistent arms around his shoulders. Dean shuts his eyes tight and tries not to feel the warmth and comfort of Sam's arms, but he does.

"You're not real, you're not real, you're not real…" Dean murmurs.

When he opens his eyes again, Sam is gone, and so are the flickering double faces. Now all he sees are their black, smug sneers.

  
2.

Hell burns. His flesh sizzles as his skin is peeled away, blood spitting and popping like acid. It boils everything away, but not the things that Dean thought he would lose. He thought Hell would take his humanity, his soul, everything that makes him _Dean_, until all that was left was an empty, black-eyed shell. But that's not what happens, not at all.

The things Dean loses are external to himself. He soon learns that the boiling is more like a distillation, removing the impurities, making him more himself, more his _true_ self, than he ever was allowed to be in the world. And as the last of his flesh burns and his bones turn to ash, all that's left over is the inky blackness, the essence of himself without the trappings of society and conscience, and he is free to be himself for the first time in his life.

When Sam comes to him, there is belief and conviction staining his skin, covering the purity of blackness underneath that is so much darker than Dean's. He wants to show Sam this, show Sam what he can become, one more lesson dutifully passed on from big brother to little brother. Because surely, once Sam realizes the truth, there will be nothing separating them, united in their freedom, brothers again, forever. But Sam is stubborn, he'll never listen. He needs to find the truth for himself, with maybe a little brotherly prodding in the right direction. Luckily, Dean's had a lifetime to learn how to handle his little brother, and reverse psychology works just as well now as when Sam was four years old.

When Sam comes to him, he says, "Dean, it's okay. I'm here now. I'm going to save you."

When Sam comes to him, Dean kneels, and lies when he says, "Master, there's nothing left of Dean to save."

  
3.

Time has no meaning in Hell. Dean doesn't know how long he's been screaming Sam's name before he figures that one out, but by then it's pretty much a moot point, anyway.

Dean had thought that the pain would get easier, that as Hell turned him into another black-eyed son of a bitch that the agony would fade with time, but that doesn't matter if time doesn't exist. Instead, Hell is like one long, drawn out tone, like the high pitched shriek of electronic feedback that he can't turn off, endless and maddening and unchanging, save for the increasingly desperate cries of Sam's name. Dean can feel his mind breaking, pieces of his sanity chipping away as Lilith worms the shadowy fingers of her control into his brain. The pain starts to consume him, despair and misery filling his soul like boiling lead, weighing him down until it's the only thing he has left. His throat is raw when he stops calling Sam's name and resigns himself to his suffering. He can feel Lilith in a darkened corner of his mind, cackling triumphantly at the fact that the Boy King's brother is now her puppet.

It isn't until Lilith rips him from his chains and shoves him into the world, into a _body_, that he realizes he was never meant to become another black-eyed drone. He's something else.

He sees his moonlit reflection in the window of a bar, and he briefly admires Lilith's sick sense of humor. Dark eyes, long dark hair, soft bowed lips, and curvy, ample breasts—exactly the kind of chick Dean would have gone for in his other life. He smirks, and the girl's reflection smirks back. He thinks maybe he'll stick to this kind of body from now on, and he honestly doesn't know if his decision is meant as a subconscious _fuck you_ to Lilith or a resignation that she's made her choice, and therefore his was made along with it.

Dean blinks, and suddenly blood-red eyes are staring back at him, going wide with horror and recognition. He looks up to see the sign above the bar reads "Lloyd's" and there's nothing around for miles except for two dirt roads that cross in front of the bar. A young black man stands there, a guitar in his hand. Lilith prods him from somewhere beyond conscious thought, and Dean steps forward, knowing what he's meant to do. This decision, too, was made for him a long time ago, even as he's making it today.

Unlike Hell, time has a meaning in the world, but the years don't make the pain any easier. Dean's soul breaks a little more with each life he collects for Lilith, envying them their ten years and toying with them like the morons they are, all the while hating himself for it. He knows better than they do what waits for them at the end. Besides, he's already getting his ten years in the world and then some, each one more tormenting than the last, each one making him long for the timeless, numbing pain of Hell. He just wants to be put out of his misery.

But the good thing about time is that it has a beginning, and it has an end. Dean can see the end approaching like the light of an oncoming train, and he's not even trying to get out of the way. He's heard about suicide by cop, and he gets it now. He always figured he'd go down fighting, he just didn't ever picture it quite like this.

He chuckles inwardly at the irony of meeting himself, of bargaining with himself for the price of his own soul. He can feel Lilith pulling his strings, and he takes the deal down to the point where he'd be idiotic to say yes. A part of Dean hopes this time he'll say no, but he knows better. He still remembers what it felt like to see Sammy so pale and cold, and he's stupidly relieved when he makes the deal, because he knows what's coming next, and it's what he's been counting on, what he's been hoping for.

"Well, little Sammy Winchester," Dean greets, the name falling from his lips when Lilith doesn't bother to check his speech. "What can I do for you, Sam?"

Dean's half expecting Sam to try to make a deal, and he's ridiculously proud of his little brother when the first thing he does is pull the Colt and point it at Dean's heart. "You can beg for your life."

That's the farthest thing from Dean's mind. He knows how this ends, even if he doesn't know exactly how it plays out. Still, he's got a role to play, because this will never work if Sam knows, if he figures it out. "We were having such a nice conversation. Then you had to go and ruin the mood."

"If I were you I'd drop the wisecracks and start acting scared."

Dean smirks. He remembers what Sam said to him, when Dean first found out Sam had shot the Crossroads Demon. _"She was a smart ass,"_ as if that was all the reason he needed.

Sam always did hate it when Dean didn't take things as seriously as his brother. Still, sometimes Dean feels like it's the only thing he's got left that reminds him of who he really is. "It's not my style," he says, because it's the truth.

"That's enough," Sam says, cold and remote. "I came here to make you an offer."

"You're gonna make _me_ an offer. That's adorable," Dean says. He figures if the wisecracks are ticking Sam off, it's the right route to take.

"You can let Dean out of his deal right now. He lives. I live. You live. Everyone goes home happy. Or…" Sam pulls back the hammer on the Colt. "You stop breathing. Permanently."

Dean looks at his brother. Sam can lie with the best of them, but he's never been able to fool Dean, and Dean's got the pile of poker chips to prove it. Dean can read Sammy's face now, can tell he means his words. Still, Dean knows his brother, and he knows when it comes time to pull the trigger, Sam'll think twice. Dean can't take that chance, and he knows how to call Sam's bluff. He grins. "All this tough talk…I have to tell you, it's not very convincing. I mean, _c'mon_, Sam. Do you even _want_ to break the deal?"

"What do you think?"

_I think I'm going to lead you down this road, and I'm sorry, Sammy. I'm so sorry,_ Dean wants to say. "I don't know," Dean says instead, before Lilith can form the words for him. He spent a lifetime learning all the right buttons to push, and if he pushes hard enough maybe he can push Sam to the breaking point. "Aren't you tired of cleaning up Dean's messes? Of dealing with that broken psyche of his? Aren't you tired of being bossed around like a snot-nosed little brother?" Dean can see his words hitting home. His next words come out sounding as true as he knows they are. "You're stronger than Dean. You're better than him."

"Watch your mouth."

Dean presses forward. "Admit it. You're here, going through the motions, but the truth is, you'll be a tiny bit relieved when Dean's gone."

"Shut up."

It hurts, to see the truth of it on Sam's face. Maybe that's why Lilith isn't trying to stop his words. But they need to be said, Sam needs to know he'll be better off without him. "No more desperate, sloppy, needy Dean." _You can finally live your life without me being in the way, like you always wanted._ "You can finally be free."

"I said, _shut up_."

"Huh." Dean's honestly surprised Sam hasn't pulled the trigger yet. "Doth protest too much if you ask me."

"Alright, I've had enough of your crap. You're gonna let Dean out of his deal, right now."

_If only it was that easy,_ Dean thinks. "Sorry, sweetheart, but your brother's an adult. He made that deal of his own free will, fair and square. It's ironclad."

"Every deal can be broken."

"Not this one."

Sam shrugs, all bravado. "Fine. Then I'll kill you. If you're gone, so's the deal."

"Guess again."

"What?"

"Sam, I'm just a saleswoman. I got a boss like everybody. He holds the contract, not me." Dean meant to say "she," but he thinks maybe Lilith is still enjoying his own gender switch just a little too much, like a kid wanting to watch Bugs Bunny dress in drag over and over again. "He wants Dean's soul, bad. And believe me, he's not gonna let it go." Lilith must know what he's doing, and she isn't even trying to stop him. He wonders briefly why she wanted him so badly if she's willing to let him go so easily.

"You're bluffing."

"Am I? Shoot me, if it'll get you off," Dean almost pleads. "But the deal still holds. And when Dean's time is up, he's getting dragged into the pit."

"Then who's your boss? Who holds the contract?"

Dean tries to say it, he does. "He's not as cuddly as me, I can tell you that."

"Who is it?"

Dean stares meaningfully at Sam. "I _can't_ tell you. I'm sorry Sam, but there's no way out of this one. Not this time." _But next time,_ he thinks. _Maybe next time, Sammy._ Because there's no time in Hell, and Dean hasn't really been there yet, so maybe it can change.

Too late for that now, though. As Dean watches, a little of the light goes out of Sam's eyes, and Dean knows his brother, knows what's coming next. All Dean had to do to save himself was kill a little of his brother's hope.

Dean stares at Sam's dead eyes, and it's the last thing he sees before it all goes black.

  
4.

Dean thinks maybe he should be surprised, but somewhere deep down he thinks he's always known.

"Isn't this all a little cliché, even for you?" Dean says weakly, words slurred by the blood and saliva oozing down his chin. He's kneeling on an ocean of burning coals, and the scent of sulfur chokes his lungs. Chains are wrapped around his wrists, leading upwards to infinity and holding his nearly limp body in place. The Trickster stands before him dressed in a red suit. There are a couple of hot chicks in skintight devil costumes, complete with shiny, plastic horns and forked tails, hanging off either arm. It would almost be comical, if Dean could muster the energy to laugh.

"Nobody appreciates the classics anymore," The Trickster sighs, deeply pained.

"You know, all the times we've met and I never did catch your name." Dean offers a blood-stained, lopsided smirk. "No wait, lemme guess. Lucifer, right?"

The Trickster—Lucifer—just offers that annoyingly smug smile in answer. It makes a twisted sort of sense, in the way anything else makes sense down here. After all, didn't he spend his time doling out punishment for the wicked? "I always knew there was a reason I liked you," Lucifer says cheerfully. "You're much smarter than you look."

Dean takes a moment to study him, buying time while he listens to the distant sounds of battle come closer. Sam's coming for him. He can feel it.

"I gotta admit, you're not quite how I pictured you," Dean says.

"Yeah, I don't really go for the whole red skin, horns and hooves thing anymore. That's so third century," he shrugs.

Dean lets his head flop back down, too exhausted to hold it up anymore. "What are you doing here?" he asks, exhaustion bleeding all traces of his earlier defensive humor from his voice.

"Thought I'd like to get a ringside seat for the family reunion. Sam'll be here any minute, and we go way back."

Somehow, Dean finds the energy to raise his head and stare straight into the Devil's eyes. "If you even try to hurt him, I swear to God—"

"Yeah, 'cause that'll work here," Lucifer snorts. "Besides, even if I wanted to stop him, there's not much I can do about it _now_. The damage has been done, yada yada yada…" He waves his hand dismissively through the heat-haze of the air.

Dean's smile is more of a grimace. "Sammy screw up all your grand plans?"

Lucifer frowns semi-thoughtfully. "Not _my_ plans, no. I actually like your world. Trust me, there's a lot more to do up there than there is down here. Humans are pretty damn entertaining." He sighs dramatically. "Oh, well. I guess it had to end sometime."

Now it's Dean's turn to frown. "What do you mean?"

Lucifer ignores him and continues in that same melodramatically wistful tone. "You know, I tried to warn him this would happen. 'Sam,' I said, 'nothing good'll come out of this obsession to save Dean,' I said. But did he listen?"

"What are you talking about?" Dean nearly shouts, pulling against his chains in frustration.

Lucifer looks at him, suddenly and dreadfully serious. "Your brother had a choice. He could let you go, get on with his life, and maybe he wouldn't exactly be happy but he'd still be human. Or…" and here Lucifer crouches down to Dean's eye level. "Or, he could embrace his powers, venture down into Hell itself to get you, and become the monster he was always meant to be."

Dean's mind spins, his breathing grows ragged as he tries to wrap the words around the sudden empty void in his brain. "No, not Sam. He wouldn't—" Dean doesn't even know what he's trying to deny, only that he knows Sam isn't what Lucifer says he is. "You don't know what you're talking about."

Lucifer's eyes narrow. "Don't I?" he asks mildly, and then Dean collapses as the vision explodes in his head like an atom bomb.

He sees everything in pieces, fast motion like a videotape on fast forward. Sam saving Dean's soul, putting him back in the body he's repaired using Doc Benton's journal and body parts harvested from the morgue. Sam using his powers to protect Dean from the demons who try to drag him back down, the demons that Sam can control with a single thought, the demons that Dean can still see because he's still connected to Hell. Sam harvesting more organs as Dean's piecemeal body starts to break down, and Sam's rising panic that he'll lose Dean again.

The first time Sam harvests a live organ from a dying man because there's just nothing else available, Dean knows where this is going, but he's as powerless against Sam as an insect trying to hold back a freight train. Over time, it gets easy—too easy, and Dean can feel Sam start to slip. He knows what Sam's doing, that he's doing it for Dean, but he can't make Sam stop. Nobody else can either, and one by one they fail: Bobby, Ellen, even Ruby. But Sam's his brother, so Dean stays by his side, tries until he can't try any more, until he has no choice but to follow him, along with the rest of the world. Dean has given his life and soul for Sam, and he can feel the darkness of Hell still inside him, so the choice to follow Sam into the darkness is easy. Dean knew a long time ago that his place is with Sam, for better or worse, and this is definitely worse. Sam becomes the Antichrist, and Dean becomes the Beast at his right hand. The world crumbles around their feet until there's nothing left but them.

Dean is ripped from the vision, gasping in pain, tears flowing down his cheeks. "Dean," Lucifer says, gently wiping the wetness from his face. "Dean, it's me," and his voice is strange.

Dean blinks his tears away to see Sam standing before him, Sam's own tears leaving tracks through the ash and blood on his cheeks. His eyes flash yellow, but maybe it's a trick of the light. "It's okay Dean, I've got you," Sam says, smiling in relief, face twisting like he might want to cry again. Dean's chains fall away, and he slumps into Sam's arms like a puppet with its strings cut. He's barely got enough strength left to breathe, but he wraps his arms around Sam's shoulders and holds on tight, so tight it hurts…

And Dean knows there's something he should say, something important, but as Sam hauls him to his feet, he can't for the life of him remember what it is.

_   
**Three Times Dean Didn't Escape From Hell, And One Time He Does (But Wishes He Hadn't)**   
_


End file.
